


Power Trip

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Plug and Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For tf-rare-pairing Megatron/Deadlock 'ownership'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Trip

The smaller mech was antsy: he could see it in the lines of the smaller mech’s frame, the way the optics followed him.  It was a kind of power, to draw this out of anyone, and a way no one had ever, yet, wanted him. “Anything to report, Deadlock?” he said, settling one hip on the console table.

The red optics flicked up his frame, like tongues of flame. “Nothing new. Ready for another mission.”  His mouth twitched, glossa flicking between his lip plates, as his optics caught the interface hatch. 

“Are you.” Just a bit of challenge in his tone.

“Always.”

“Sad,” Megatron said. “I would think maybe you’d want some sort of…reward.”

“Reward.” Deadlock’s voice was quick and eager, one hand twitching by his side, even as he struggled to keep his face in its now-customary scowl.

Megatron couldn’t help the smirk. “Reward. I’d say you’ve earned it, haven’t you?”  He reached one hand to his interface hatch, fingers curling over the release.

“I…if you say.” 

That perfect struggle between want and obedience, Megatron thought. No one did it quite as intensely and openly as Deadlock, even to the sharp hiss of air. Megatron reached forward, hooking one of the spaulders, hauling Deadlock close against him. “I do.”

He could feel Deadlock tremble against him, smaller hands scrambling over his chassis for the interface hatch release, clumsy in their eagerness. Megatron shifted his position, squeezing his knees against the smaller mech’s hips, just to feel the other’s eager vibration more strongly.

His hatch opened, and Deadlock paused, one hand stretched out over the exposed cable-prongs, cycling a shallow vent of air, holding himself in taut anticipation, as though waiting for permission, his optics dazed already.  His touch was nearly reverent a moment later when he did move, his fingertips curling around the cable’s head, feeling the mass of it, the smoothness of the brushed titanium, almost like satin. 

Megatron reached over, Deadlock’s arm floating out of the way as he found the smaller mech’s interface hatch, thumbing it open.  It was an intimate touch, almost casually done, almost as if he wouldn’t enjoy this as much as Deadlock.

He would, but for different reasons. Deadlock wanted the overload, wanted Megatron’s higher voltage, like a living circuit booster, to blast him into near shutdown, the bliss of being overwhelmed, frothed over and subsumed under a wave of electrons and heat.  Megatron wanted the rush of control, of feeling the complete surrender of another to his will. Not as badly, not as desperately as Deadlock did, but then again, Megatron had never been an addict.

Deadlock tugged at the cable’s head, releasing some of the cable itself from the internal reel, looking up to meet Megatron’s gaze, his free hand sliding down the mesh length of the cable. It felt good, and it was something almost endearing, that Deadlock knew these little tricks, these finesses to the routine. Looking at him, one would have thought a mech of Deadlock’s personality would go straight for his own release. Looks deceived more than once in this world, and Megatron certainly appreciated the intent, as well as the little flourishes themselves: the way the small, adroit fingers skimmed over the cable, to the countersunk housing rim, the way he held the head up to his mouth, glossa flicking out to the grounding prong, optics lidded and coy.  Megatron had learned so much from Deadlock about this, things they’d never done in the mines, things only a mech with a certain past would have learned.

He could feel the anticipation building between them, like a layer of fuzz, intense and weighty.  He cupped Deadlock’s own cable head, squeezing it in his palm.  Deadlock liked the pressure of it, liked the quick way he unspooled it from the reel, even the sure, direct, miner’s way of slipping it into his own plug platen.

The other mech’s lower voltage was just a pleasurable trickle for him, the presence of another system opening through the data feed. Deadlock’s desire was magnified, this way, sharp and hot, almost a hunger. Deadlock gave an enigmatic smile, almost shy, feeling the connection, feeling his firewalls tapped.  He held out a moment longer, cupping the cable before slowly, almost languorously, sinking the cable home into his own platen.

Deadlock's head rolled back with a gasping sort of sigh, as the current hit him, hard and fast, like a blast of power. It was like a dozen circuit boosters, all at once, spinning him apart into a whirl of energy and motion, outside himself, as though his meager self were exploded into a thousand bright glittering fragments, like a dirty window shattered into shards of crystal brightness. And everything was beautiful and powerful and limitless.

He couldn’t even feel his body, the thin limitations of his frame. He lived for these moments, the shivering release, his entire past, everything just obliterated in a crashing sea of sensation.  He couldn’t even feel himself, his hands clinging to Megatron’s shoulders, the hard arch of his spinal struts, weight nearly suspended from Megatron’s knees, pressed into his hips. And the line between them was erased on Deadlock's end, letting Megatron in every aspect of his being: his memories, his sensory feed, everything.  

Deadlock could hear the whine—his vocalizer, wanting and pitiful—as the current rheo’d down, from his own audio, from Megtron's.  “More,” he murmured, delirious. “I can take more. I want more.”

A deep chuckle, Megatron’s laugh, against him, rippling through the plush, wonderful field of the ebbing overload.  Deadlock’s systems were hot, his cooling fans roaring, and he could smell the acrid singe of his own overheated wiring.  “Enough,” Megatron said, one hand holding him up under his arm.

Deadlock whimpered, leaning upward, mouth finding Megatron’s in a seeking, pleading kiss. “Please,” he said, glossa circling the inside of Megatron’s mouthplates, tender and coy. 

Megatron could resist, but sometimes, he didn’t want to. It was too tempting to let himself be drawn back in, to run the current back up in his cable, just to watch Deadlock react, the mouth drop open, optics roll back. He could feel the blind ecstasy through the feedback circuit, the sharp-edged loyalty, the need shuddering against him.

And back—he lowered the voltage through the cable, holding Deadlock to overload for what seemed like an eternity of bliss before edging him off hard, dropping the current, catching the smaller mech’s frame as he slumped forward, limp and wrung out. He cradled the helm against his shoulder, feeling the heat roil off Deadlock’s frame, the aching desire of one who felt himself empty desiring to be filled and filled again, with purpose, with power, with anything but the dreadful hollowness he felt at his core. 

Megatron knew that feeling, the dim echo of loneliness, the cindery crumb of self-worth that was all too common in the gutters, in the mines, where all you were was what you could do for others.  

Deadlock sighed against him, mouth moving against Megatron's shoulder, hands releasing their grip on Megatron's armor, sliding awkwardly down his arms, giving a shapeless murmur of fading bliss, before rolling his crest against Megatron's shoulder, meeting Megatron's gaze with dimmed optics and a sultry smile. The slack cables pressed between their bodies. "Good?" he asked, his voice almost dreamy. 

"Always," Megatron said, letting one long burst of his sensory feed through, letting Deadlock feel the heady rush of the exultation of power, an ecstasy of a different sort. Megatron reached over, jerking his cable out with one neat gesture, leaving Deadlock half-doubled over, gasping from pain, from loss, from the want to continue. And he knew--they both did--no one could give Deadlock what he needed, and no one, Megatron knew, would lay himself so open, so surrendered. It was an addiction neither could acknowledge, but that both knew the other could feed, a symbiosis of need.  He uncoupled Deadlock's cable from his own port, handing it back with the gentle motion of a ritual observed, and promising more. 

 


End file.
